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She got up clumsily, almost flattening herself against the wall in her desire to avoid touching him.
‘I’m going out for a walk.’
‘You’ll get soaked.’
‘I don’t care.’
If he suggested going with her, she would probably push him down the first hillside they came to. She had to get away from him. To her relief, he stepped easily to one side to allow her to leave.
Her outdoor coat and her wellingtons were still in the car. She found them and pulled them on, ignoring the rain pelting down on her.
Out here she could breathe, she could relax, and most of all she could forget how she had felt when Guy French touched her.
* * *
Campion had walked in Pembroke before on visits with Helena. For mile upon glorious mile, the headland and cliffs belonged to the National Trust, and their paths were open to walkers, but that had been in summer, and she had gone less than a mile when she realised how very cold and wet it actually was.
The cottage and the village were only a couple of miles from the coast, but she would be a fool to try and walk there today, Campion acknowledged. The wind seemed to have trebled in force since she had come out, and already she was almost bent double under the force of it. It had whipped back her hood and tormented strands of her hair free from her French pleat to plaster them wetly across her skin. Her hands were icy cold, and she discovered that her wellingtons seemed to leak. Even so, despite all her discomfort, she preferred to be here outside rather than cooped up in the cottage with Guy.
What had he been trying to do? Surely he must know how aware she was that a man like him would never find her attractive? So why touch her…why make that stupid remark about her skin? She shivered, and not because of the cold or the damp penetrating her coat.
The sensation she had experienced when he touched her skin had been so electrifying, so shocking, that she was still shaken by the memory of it.
Her whole body had seemed to leap to meet his touch, and for one horrendous moment she had actually wondered what it would be like to experience his hand against her naked skin.
She had never known anything like it before. Not even with Craig. It was all Guy’s fault; all his probing and digging had unleashed an awareness in her of all that was missing from her life. For one incredible moment in the study, she had actually found herself envying and resenting her own heroine, jealously wishing that she was Lynsey, free to explore and enjoy her sensuality.
She must be going crazy, she told herself. It was this damn book. She should never have agreed to take it on. But she had agreed, and her pride would not let her give up now. She had to finish it…
Suddenly, she was overwhelmed by a frantic need to get back to work. She turned blindly and started to almost run back. The sooner the alterations were done, the sooner she would be free to escape from Guy. She would even let him tell her what to write, if that got the work done faster…
A sudden gust of wind caught her, winding her with its force. She staggered and slipped on the treacherously muddy path, landing uncomfortably, but not too painfully, on the wet ground.
When she got up, she saw with despair that her coat was covered in mud and soaking wet. She shivered. The wind had developed an icy edge that cut through her jeans and top.
By the time she got back to the cottage, her teeth were chattering and her hands turning blue.
Guy was in the kitchen when she staggered in, stirring something in a pan. The rich smell of hot soup filled the room, and Campion couldn’t help despairingly contrasting the calm efficiency of this man, who seemed to have a deftly sure touch in all he did, with her own apparently doomed attempts to show him that she was entirely self-sufficient.
She couldn’t even go out for a short walk without inviting disaster, she reflected bitterly as she struggled to tug off her wellingtons.
‘Here, let me…’
Of course, the damn things would have to slide off easily the moment he touched them.
She stiffened as she looked down at his dark head as he kneeled to help her. Why was it that there was something almost vulnerable about the sight of the nape of his neck? His skin was faintly brown, his muscles moving easily as he helped her out of her boots.
She felt oddly lethargic; unable to move. She felt the warmth of his hand on her skin, and the ripples of heat that spread out from the place where he touched her.
‘Are you all right?’
Humiliation filled her, and she struggled to step back from him. How had he known about that peculiar sensation of pleasure she had just experienced? And then she realised he was looking at her muddy coat.
‘I fell over, that’s all,’ she told him shortly. ‘The path was muddy.’
‘Why don’t you go up and have a shower, and then we can have lunch?’
The thought of warm water on her cold, wet skin was too blissful to be ignored.
